


Everywhere

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Song Fics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John's Inner Monologue, M/M, POV John Watson, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:25:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John wrestles with the big decision - to tell Sherlock or not.





	Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 'Everywhere' by Fleetwood Mac.  
> Lyrics [here](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/fleetwoodmac/everywhere.html)  
> Video [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LaOMLU8acM)  
> Unedited, beta'd or Britpicked, my dears. <3

John did not spend time pondering the reality of telepathy. He knew it was fallacy. Had it been fact, he and Sherlock would not be locked in this quandary from which he saw (and sought) no escape. The silent plea in his head, directed like a laser at Sherlock, would have been heard and they would have talked. At least talked. Maybe more, or eventually less – but something. Every beat of his heart dropped him a little deeper into hopeless affection – an infinitesimal amount, barely noticed. Multiply that by 80, and 60, and 24, and 31; suddenly the change was perceptible. Not that it mattered either way. There was nothing to be done. Noticing it, tracking the changes, merely allowed a macabre self-awareness of his inexorable descent as the moments, hours, days and months passed him by. And there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

Every evening at Baker Street, he followed the same routine; barring a case, he would come home from work, they would eat (he would eat), he would make two cups of tea, and they would sit together. That was the hardest time, when he felt the words spilling through his veins most keenly. The silence, broken only by the fire in winter, or the sound of the violin, pulled at his vocabulary, finding the superlatives in every dimension, the adjective that described perfectly a quirk or attitude otherwise unnoticed by the general population. Sherlock often chided him for his poor typing skills, but more often than not, it was John’s head that wandered off, marvelling that such a thumping drum was not audible, even in the quiet of their sitting room. It consumed John’s conscious mind, hence his woefully slow progress against recording their memoirs.

The idea of speaking his mind had of course occurred to him; the words often flowed unbidden through his mind, nourished with every pump of his heart, sending sentiment coursing through his body, supporting and surrounding the florid words as they bloomed. Opening his mouth, however, clearing his throat, waiting while those moonstone eyes settled on his own was like pressing the abort key. The words dried up, scattered on the wind of his frustrated sigh, and he would shake his head, eyes desperately trying to send the message stored so stubbornly within his head. In so many other ways, he and Sherlock moved in tandem; at a crime scene, or on the chase across London, one would often move before consulting the other, trusting in their instinctive awareness to compensate for the risk and keep both men safe. Why not in this, then? The same idea rang true in their personal life; John often ordered food on the way home, which Sherlock declared was exactly what he would have chosen (though he rarely ate much); and John, dragging weary feet up the steps would sometimes find a bath drawn, the temperature perfect as it waited for his return.

How could he tempt the fates, when he had been dealt, in all reality, such a generous hand? In many ways, John Watson was a lucky man. In comparison with his recently-discharged self he was a rich man; between his job, his close group of friends and colleagues and his roommate, there was little John wished for. And yet…he knew that this yearning was starting to consume him, to change him. He found himself staring into space while others spoke; refusing social engagements; smiling for no reason as some detail of the world reminded him. Those who knew him little thought him vague, odd, reserved. Others who knew him better, asked tentatively if he was alright, was there something they could do? John was always polite, which was his natural state, though he rarely offered details. To do so would be to allow another voice to weigh in and possibly taint the purity of the words caught inside his head. And so he remained, caught in the limbo of his own inaction.

Was it only his own inaction to blame? John often wondered if Sherlock, face so often impassive, eyes sharp and mind sharper, had noticed one of the hundred tells John was sure he posessed. Surely, after so long, and an increasingly deep affection, John had given himself away; and yet Sherlock had mentioned nothing. No comment on John’s contentedness to remain at home so often; no offhand deduction explaining his reluctance to take on extra work. He was either learning tact, completely oblivious, or some third option which, though undefined, remained more likely than the other two. John had studied Sherlock to the extent his limited brain would allow, but his subjective viewpoint made true observation impossible, and he regrettably gave it up. Sherlock’s emotional state remained a mystery, and would have continued so without considerable catalytic interference.

It was the death of a young man, in the end, which pushed John to act. A meaningless death, much like those he could not prevent in Afghanistan; a young man, otherwise healthy, who had ignored a wound on his hand until it had gone septic. He had collapsed in line at the supermarket, thrashing on the ground as a seizure wracked his body. John had abandoned his basket, calling orders in a sharp tone as he aided the man. Despite the impressive response time and the extensive training of the ex-Army Doctor who had so swiftly attended him, the young man had died. The bacteria had coursed through his system, overwhelming his heart before anything could be done. Less of a seizure and more death throes, John thought, having more experience of the latter than any man should. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth hard to negate the tremors he could not control. What a waste of a life, he thought to himself. That young man ignored the pain and discomfort of his body, denying his own state of being, and it killed him.

Sitting outside as he ambulance drew away, John listened to the rain patter on the bus-stop roof. Without action is death, he thought as he watched a puddle slowly form. There is ecstasy in this purgatory, for proximity to Sherlock bears a multitude of benefits. But I am stagnating, and the agony of this rigor will only cease with death or decision. His heart beat and veins pumped the refrain a thousand times as he weighed his options, the pumping rush moving faster as his debate reached its conclusion. Move or die. I can no longer endure.

There was always something in his tread to inform Sherlock about his state of mind, and this situation was no different. As he often did, John entered the sitting room, aligning his internal compass with Sherlock’s position. Now was the moment to break from the routine, to make the distinction between the past and the future. Gathering his words, John allowed the rapid thud of his heart to fill his mental conservatory with the florid, romantic, sentimental words borne of his love. The most and grandest he’d ever considered lay next to his humblest offerings, one prepared for success should the other fail. John steeled himself, eyes locking on Sherlock, expression of determination finally doing what he had failed to for so long – communicating with Sherlock. The stillness of the detective was unnerving, but John knew this was the moment; not one to hold stock with mysticism, he felt the stars themselves align, gently urging him that now was the time, lest all be lost.

Pushing away the doubt, John opened his mouth, allowing the dam to break, his words tasting the sweet freedom granted by his lips and tongue at last. Without prompting, he wove phrases in the air, imagery swirling and dancing on the waves of passion with which he pulsated. John spoke and spoke, draining his reserves, his wildly beating heart working valiantly to sustain his tirade but to no effect; in due course, he was sated, stumbling to a halt with relief and no little trepidation.

+++

Sherlock was staring, his own mouth open as he witnessed John’s watershed moment; as the words flowed, he understood that he too, would be affected by this declaration. It was not John’s moment, but theirs; as so many things were shared between them, so this could not be divided. Blinking, Sherlock considered John’s words, plucking at the few that resonated the most deeply. He felt as if John had opened his head and perused the contents, taking those that expressed his own emotions and claiming them for his own. It appeared they were as much of a mind in this as in less important areas of their lives, the minutiae that confirmed their compatibility in a hundred delicate ways. Each fragile strand played its part, weaving together as an integral part of the dense connection. As John finished speaking, Sherlock’s pulse thudded in his veins, whispering the refrain he’d become so accustomed to. He stepped forward, taking John’s hand and pressing his fingers to the pulse on John’s wrist, feeling John doing the same in return.

+++

When racing heart and racing heart finally recognized each other, John changed his mind about telepathy. The counterpoint to his own declaration was coursing through Sherlock all along, and they could finally hear each other.


End file.
